


The Games We Play

by black_hat_with_bells



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_hat_with_bells/pseuds/black_hat_with_bells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a sign of his redemption, Sylar is Bennet's partner and also lives in the Bennet house. Claire can't help but flirt with danger and insanity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Games We Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shimmeree](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Shimmeree).



> This is a fic that is actually cut in two. I did so because the change in tone was kind of abrupt and in retrospect, not one I liked. But you do get the fun part?

The only light came from the streetlight above them.

Claire sat in the backseat, arms crossed, looking at his profile in the side mirror. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

An uncomfortable truth. His eyes were still dark, but kinder somehow. Faker, somehow. He was like a caricature.

Her dad’s glasses seemed to enable him to look detached from the situation. It was like running into a wall. As it turns out, her dad was more of a scientific type than she would have imagined. He liked to observe these people.

So did Sylar.

They liked to tilt their heads and make silent observations in a mental rolodex, and it was creeping her out.

“This is the meeting place,” her dad confirmed, seeing a shadow slink into the parking lot. “Gabriel, take the steering wheel.”

Sylar grinned and pretended to try and tug it out of its place. Her dad gave him a look.

“Hey, it was a joke.”

“Idiot,” Claire muttered, shaking her head.

“Claire, don’t talk that way about your dad. He’s trying!”

“Well, at least he can try,” she shot back.

“Enough,” her dad bit out. It had become a mantra, and in the past few weeks, a golden oldie. Or a bronze one. It fell heavy on her and she backed off, pretending not to care. “We need absolute silence. I’m going to leave you two in here, and please, just. Be. Quiet.”

“I can do more, I could help,” Sylar protested. That was her line.

“Then be really, really quiet.” Her dad got out of the car, the light flicking on, and he stepped out where the shadow could see him. Sylar did as well, only to cross around the front of the car and get into the driver’s seat.

They both watched her dad approach the shadow, hands raised.

Sylar sipped loudly on his coffee, catching her eye here and there in the rear view mirror.

“Claire, hold this.”

He appeared to toss the coffee back towards her and she steadied the cup with her hand.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You know the answer to that.” She pushed the cup back, simmering.

“Your dad’s so brave. It’s not surprising to learn you aren’t related to the guy.”

“Hmm,” Claire replied. “I know. It’s hard to come to terms with, but you’re just going to have to work through your feelings.”

“What?”

“That you’re totally gay for my dad.”

Sylar snorted, shaking his head. “Oh, I think you’re projecting. I think you’re the one who has the hots for the old man. He spends more time worrying over you than his own wife, and you don’t do much to stop that, I’ve noticed.”

That was it. That was officially it.

“Wow. This operation…” she began, watching something trade hands between the two men in the parking lot. “…is a total…”

Wait for it. Sylar sipped his drink, watching the exchange intently.

“COCKBLOCK!!!!” Claire screamed at the top of her lungs. Sylar spat out his coffee and his elbow hit the horn on the steering wheel.

The shadowy figure darted away, flying over the fence. Literally. Her dad stared after him in horror, seemingly frozen. Then he turned around, his glasses glinting.

They stared at him.

She should plan her campaign against Sylar better.

***

Claire got out of the car slowly, savoring the presence of pavement beneath her feet. After being rushed into fast food place from fast food place and for the rest of the time, kept trapped in an uncomfortable car in uncomfortable circumstances, this felt too good to be true.

Being among other people always made her situation seem small. There was a group of children playing basketball on the other side of the street, and she couldn’t help but smile. She leaned against the door and curiously put her bare shoulder to the side of the black car. There was heat but it was odd: all the sensations got through but pain. Weird.

Claire knew he was watching her behind his dark sunglasses, and she directed her attention back to the kids.

“Be careful!”

She jerked her head up and felt her hair blow up as a car passed closely by her.

“I’ll be fine. He would have been more hurt than me.”

“She would have. It was a woman driver.”

She looked at him from over the top of the car, biting her lip. He was either making fun of the gender to get at her by association or among other things, he had issues with women. It would have made her ‘LOL’ if it hadn’t been so annoying.

“Woman driver? Why would even say that?”

“Because….it was a woman driver. Anyway, we don’t want to cause a scene. It might be hard to explain, us having a conversation while I scrape you up from the asphalt.”

“Do we ever have a conversation? It would just be you listening to yourself talk. You’d probably like the excuse.”

Sylar frowned (in heartfelt emo-torture) and looked back up at the building. Like Elmo without the L. Waiting for her dad to come back and save him from an unreasonable, unforgiving, and unpleasant Claire. Sob.

She saw that the building her dad was in was near a strip mall. She smiled to herself.

“Hey, I need to stretch my legs from being in the car. I’ll window-shop for a little bit. I’ll be right back.”

“All right,” Sylar said. As if she needed his permission. “Stay where I can see you.”

“Okay, okay.”

Even the process of walking away from him was uncomfortable. He watched her, and she tried to act casual. It was like she was two, like he was really concerned. She hated him nice. It was fucking ridiculous.

Not only did it make her the biggest bitch in the world, it made her somehow…responsible for how things had happened. Somehow, it was her. Maybe this wasn’t the truth, but it was more real than the truth.

How could he save me had turned into how dare he save me.

In the strip mall, there was a pizza shop that looked pretty good. Tons of kids in there, too. They also served ice cream, and she saw a little girl beam in happiness when she received her waffle cone. It was as if she was an alien observing those long lost habitants. She breathed in the air around her, listened to the bustle of activity. The sound of the city was making her mood pick up. She wasn’t as claustrophobic and tense.

There was a computer store, a shoe store, a book store, and a…

A lingerie store.

She looked over her shoulder to where he was by the car. She didn’t know why she did what she did. If he hadn’t felt her gaze and looked back over, she wouldn’t have done it at all.

He looked. She dodged into the store.

It smelled like overly cleaned tile with a lemon scent and cheap, packaged fabrics and perfume. Totally manufactured. Teenage girls were mobbing the place but so were adult women.  
She smiled widely. She couldn’t help it. Even though this was a revenge of sorts, it was the fun kind. Mischievous-like. Claire hurried to the back of the store, near the dressing room, and waited to watch.

There he was. No going back now.

Sylar’s mouth dropped open at the sight of all the bras and half-nude mannequins with lacey thongs in the window and he turned to see—for real this time—if her dad would provide rescue.

Alas, there was no rescue.

A dad was parked near the front door, sitting in a chair and looking down at his feet. Sylar walked in and got everyone’s attention that was in the front area of the store.

Small teenagers and old women, alike, stared up at him in horror. He didn’t take off his sunglasses, but clenched his jaw like a man on a mission.

Claire grabbed a pair of bright red bra and panties (the lacey non-existent kind) and backed away slowly, edging towards the dressing room. Red. He’d like that.

Sylar stalked through the rows of lingerie, and a girl gasped as she saw him appear over the stacks of cartoon underwear. His jaw tightened just that much more.

A clerk hurried towards him, clicking her high heels in a fury. “Sir, can I help you? Sir?”

“No,” Sylar bit out. Then realizing this broke his nice-guy mold, he smiled sheepishly. “Afraid none of this is in my size.”

You lame idiot. You obviously didn’t steal enough brains, Claire thought.

The blue-haired girl gaped up at him, and he turned red. “I’m looking for my niece. I think she went back here.”

He lunged towards the other dressing room (the wrong dressing room) with the girl clicking after him. Claire giggled and ran to get a dressing room of her own, tearing through the curtains and getting undressed.

Some part of her didn’t know why she was doing this. The threat of going too far was never more apparent here. The other part of her was excited, giddy, and after all, it was just like being at a pool party right? Just like a bikini.

“Listen, lady, I’ve been told I need help but not the kind you’re offering.”

God, Sylar, really?

“I need to find her before her dad gets back. We’ll miss our flight.”

“What’s her name, then?” the woman challenged.

“Claire,” he growled back. The lady started to knock against the side of each dressing room. “Claire, I’m looking for a Claire.”

“I’m a Claire,” someone answered. She had to bite her hand to stop from bursting out laughing.

“I would have done that!” Sylar said, and she could sense him getting angrier.

“I’m in here, Uncle,” she called out sweetly, positioning herself against the mirror and giving her best smile.

He jerked open the curtains and like a fish seeing the hook, bam, gone.

Until the curtains started to move again. The crazy fuck was really coming in here.

“Sir, sir!”

She took the extra bra and panties and shoved them through the curtain. She located his arm, and poked him with the hanger.

“Oh, I’ve got to have it. Please, please, please.”

Poke, poke, poke.

Courageously, she peeked out the curtains, and saw the most serial killer-ish smile in the world. It was bright and chipper.

“Sure thing, cherry pie. These look…delicious on you.”

Claire frowned, and so did the woman. She went and got dressed, on the line between smug and utterly distraught. Waltzing out with her head held high, she spotted him paying for the underwear.

“Credit?” the woman asked.

“Cash.”

“You’re the best uncle in the whole wide world!” she squee-d and hugged him from behind, ever-so-tightly.

He tensed and she could feel the anger radiating off his body. Opps.

Claire hurried outside, and spotted her dad.

“When I said, ‘don’t move’? I meant don’t move from the car.”

“Sylar wanted to treat us to pizza,” she said, remembering the shop right next door to the lingerie store.

Her dad looked dismissive of the whole idea, and when they got in the car, he was grumpy.

Sylar came out without a bag but stuffed something in his coat pocket. Claire flushed and looked down at her nails.

“Where’s the pizza?” her dad asked as he got into the car. Sylar gaped at him before realizing.

“They ran out.”

“The pizza store ran out of pizza?”

“Not enough, um, sauce,” he savored, grinning about something.

“Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

Sylar looked at her in the rear view mirror, and for once, Claire wasn’t too thrilled about her decision.

***  
Going home should have been a godsend.

Going home with Sylar, instead, was a devil-send.

Her dad described it as removing temptation. She imagined it was similar to removing the walls around the castle. It becomes just a building. No challenge at all.

‘But do not engage him, Claire.’

‘Oh trust me. He’s not my type’, she had joked, and her dad had hugged her.

She understood the thought process behind it, a kind of risqué reverse psychology.

The first night in, she had a nightmare, and it was no white shining kind. It might have been about him, again, but that wasn’t what spooked her. Claire had woken up, tangled in the veil of sleep, before her eyes fixed on the shadowy figure in her room.

She couldn’t even scream, she could only choke on her air. It was tall, dark, and unholy,staring at her from the corner, tortuously long. After a few minutes, she realized it was a winter coat her mother had set out, fresh from dry cleaning. And here she had thought that Sylar…

Then she’d realize that Sylar was in her house, asleep in the guest bedroom. Her heart would hammer and she crept towards her door, making sure it was locked. Realized it would make no difference.

And she’d sit, huddled in her covers, with her heart pounding so hard it would rock her body back and forth. She had played with him—played rough with him—but her dad had always been nearby. That’s the thing about dads: he was essentially as useless as the locked door around Sylar, but still, he was her dad and he’d protect her.

At night, with him down the hall, it was a whole different game, one where after her teasing, it was his turn. She cracked.

“You know, I don’t mean you any harm,” Claire began, conveniently drifting downstairs towards the kitchen, after dinner. “I’m just…playing, that’s all.”

“So am I,” Sylar responded, looking her over. He had a glass of orange juice, and that bothered Claire. It was because, she realized, he looked normal. (child-like?)

He was also wearing a wife beater. Not like she noticed. Who wears that anyway?

“I left you something in your room.”

“Okay. As long as it’s not like a horse’s head, or something.”

“There’s an idea. You are Italian, after all.”

“So are you,” she shot back.

“Exactly.”

At her expression, “It’s your items. You did want them, didn’t you?”

She shrugged, and he laughed.

“I guess I could keep them,” and there was a look. Heavy and heady, and she took a step back, back towards the safety of her parents in the next room.

But she wasn’t a little girl anymore. She could handle this.

“Okay, you know that’s just gross, don’t you? You’re my uncle. I guess, that’s hypocritical but honestly, it was like a bikini. We could have been at the beach for a family vacation, okay….”

“I have my doubts about the uncle part,” he confided, and now…where it shouldn’t have…she was that much more embarrassed.

“Um, thanks for sharing in such a timely manner,” Claire said, flushing. “But anyway…I wanted to make a truce.”

“Had enough already? We were just getting started.”

“And it was so much fun that it was too much. Of a good thing, that is,” she answered, not wanting to back down.

“You’re only afraid of what I might do to you,” Sylar said, changing his tone to the one she had been most familiar with.

She stiffened, and then forced herself to relax. “Yeah, pretty much. So, uh, truce...Gabriel,” she choked out, using his old name like talisman.

She held out her hand and he stared at it like it was a bomb she was about to throw in his face. Then he took her hand (to the point where she couldn’t wrap her fingers around his) and pulled her into…

A hug.

Her eyes wide against his chest, she could feel the cotton against her eyelids, her lips smooched against the shirt. He crushed her against him, her breasts were crushed against him, and she could feel his chin on her head, and no, uncles don’t hug like this. Nor do friends. Nor do enemies.

“Aw, gosh, Claire,” he said, and she was right back to hating him, or hating that her breath was catching. “I think I have something in my eye.”

“Is it my fingernail? Because if you don’t let go right now, it’s going to be my fingernail.”

“I’ll have to take up wearing my glasses around you…but you really meant it, right?” he asked, pushing her back but not far enough, steadying her with his hands. “You want to be friends?”

Holy. Shit.

“Um, sure,” Claire said, careful not to look at his chest. “We can get to know each other better in a different context. And that phrasing did not come out the way I intended it to.”

“No, I got what you meant.” Stop staring, she thought. “We’ll spend some quality time together later then.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She started to backpedal out of the room, smiling and hating herself for it.

“I like plans. I have a feeling that I’ll need a girl who can…bounce back.”

“T, then that’s me,” Claire said, hitting the frame of the door. “I’m like a rubber band. Or an elastic band that didn’t---come out the way I wanted it to, either.”

Lingerie, she thought in a panic. Boxers, she thought in a panic attack.

He raised an eyebrow, looking too cool for school, too amused for her liking, and she fled the kitchen to hurry up to her bedroom.

Like he had said, the lingerie was there.

In her underwear drawer. Nicely, obsessively folded. She stood there, grasping the drawer tightly for support.

She kept it to herself.

***

The war raged on through various means.

First battle: bedroom

One night, sad and tired from the façade she had kept up all day, Claire listened to the familiar jangle of Mr. Muggle’s dog tags. He slept at the foot of her bed, and she liked to think he stood guard.

This night, however, she heard the tags ‘jingle-jingle’ by her door. She opened her eyes and hurried to look down the hall. Mr. Muggles had gone in Sylar’s room. Now, Claire wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t kill Mr. Muggles right there and then. He could call it an accident. Maybe it would be if Mr. Muggles woke him up too suddenly.

Gritting her teeth, she tiptoed down the hall, careful not to make a sound. In her pajamas, she opened the door a bit wider, seeing the small furry dog outlined in the moonlight, his little eyes peering at her.

‘woof’ he whispered.

“Shhh,” Claire said. “Here. Come here.” She patted the floor, trying to listen for a rustle of the covers. Sylar’s foot hung off the bed. It was warning enough. She wasn’t going any further. Mr. Muggles sat.

“No,” she whispered, patting her knee. “Come here. Here, sweetie, here.”

Mr. Muggles jumped on the bed. Jingle-jingle.

Claire remained on the floor, frozen, until she decided she wasn’t going to let Sylar kill her dog. She crawled towards the bed, and the foot didn’t move.

A pillow did. A pillow did! She lay on the floor, straightening out. She was on top of his shoe. Geez. He obviously bought shoes from the same place the jolly green giant got his…only the giant was footless. She looked at the foot again and had an insane urge to tickle it.

Claire wasn’t that foolhardy however.

Sylar made a sound. Oh god.

She listened, but it seemed against his pillow. A surprisingly normal sound. Not being able to take it anymore, minutes feeling like hours, she stood up and seized Mr. Muggles who was getting settled down to sleep at the foot of the bed.

‘woof’.

‘Shhhhh,” Claire whispered, tiptoeing as fast as she could.

The lights flipped on, and she decided to keep on going. “…C, Claire?” he muttered, sounding sleepy.

Out the door, down the hall, tiptoetiptoerunrunrun!, and she was in her room. Mr. Muggles was safe. There was a knock on her door.

“W, what? Whoozit?” Claire asked, pretending to be waking up. Let the psycho think he hallucinated.

“You know who.”

“Elvis?”

“Open the door.”

She rustled her bed covers, and opened the door. “What?”

“Where you in my room just now?”

“Why would I be in your room?”

“That’s a good question. Why?”

“That doesn’t have an answer because I wasn’t in it.”

“Let me see your pajamas.”

“No,” Claire protested. “You’re sick.”

“I’d have to be to dream up what I saw. But if it was real, then you were in my room. You had little rabbits on your pajamas. It was sickening.”

He looked down at her leg. At her rabbit covered leg. “You saw it when you were going through my drawers.”

“I only went through the underwear. Why were you in my room?”

“It’s not even your room. It’s technically mine because I live here.”

Sylar pushed the door open further, and spotted Mr. Muggles in her arms. Mr. Muggles spotted him. Claire felt the tail-wag behind her back, brushing against her shoulders. Traitor.

‘woof’.

“Hey, little guy!” He petted her dog. He petted…the dog. Then he paused. “Were you going to smother me with your dog?”

“I wouldn’t do that to Mr. Muggles,” Claire defied, making her eyes as cool as possible.

‘woof’

“Can I?” Sylar asked, holding out his arms, and Mr. Muggles was struggling to get out of her arms. Fine, Claire thought bitterly. “Sure, why not?”

Sylar held the dog gently, and Mr. Muggles licked his face. “Aw….you know, you can’t control this. He’ll come to who he likes best.”

Claire made a face at him.

“And by the way, I’m locking my door. I’ll let it go this time but don’t try to get in bed with me again.”

“What?!”

“Goodnight,” he said and walked away.

Second battle: washroom

When she saw him enter the small laundry room, her stomach did a flip.

“I need to get these stains out.”

“EW,” Claire said. “Did not need to know that. Weren’t you toilet trained as a child?”

“Nice,” Sylar muttered. “No. I was helping paint something.”

“Oh, I bet you were using red paint. The kind that doesn’t come off and glows in fluorescent light.”

“White, actually,” he said, holding up a shirt. Sure enough, it was a white stain.

“You shouldn’t try and eat glue.”

Sylar bit his lip and looked at her slowly. “Do you want out?”

“No,” she said. Not wanting to go past him. It was a small laundry room. She’d have to touch him to get out. Clearly, he did this on purpose. “I like to watch. I find it fascinating.”

“Well, I do want to fit in.”

He planted himself right next to her, crossed his arms, and looked at the wash machine.  
Two hours. Two hours straight of wanting to jump out of her skin, while he pretended to be fascinated. Maybe he wasn’t pretending. Like she wasn’t pretending to look at the shape of his arms. Apparently, being serial killer was a workout.

Steroids from brains?

Creep-o.

He buried his head in her shirt. Not the one she was wearing. But her freshly cleaned, lovely blue shirt—he inhaled it.

“Ah, I love that smell.”

CREEP-O.

Third Battle: Sunday morning.

Always, on Saturday, this religious show comes on early. Now, normally, Claire wouldn’t watch.

She had her faith of things bigger, but they didn’t attend church, and she didn’t feel like watching. With a former murderer in the house, she took a renewed interest with vigor.

Claire let the voice raise up from the television, condemning liars, rapist, murderers…good stuff.

“Claire,” her dad warned one night. ‘Gabriel’ was peacefully reading the paper at the kitchen table.

“What? Don’t you find it interesting? This is for my character, Dad, I have to watch. Besides, there are no second chances at this type of thing.”

“Turn it down.”

She did. Only just.

Sunday morning, she was woken up at six in the morning by a frantic banging. Thinking something had happened, she had opened the door to see Sylar in his Men in Black suit, his hair nicely combed.

“Are you ready?”

“For the bathroom attendant tryouts? No, but apparently you are.”

“Go to church with me.”

“No,” Claire said. “Go to sleep.”

“But I’ve seen the light! My soul, my poor damned, wretched, filthy, soul…is it still worth saving?”

“I don’t care about your soul. Don’t make that face at me. I don’t care about anyone’s soul at six am.”

“Of course, you can’t die. So, why would you care that you’re the only one who can save me from my wicked, wicked ways?”

“You can’t die either! I didn’t plan for this. Did you plan on being a serial killer? Don’t answer that. Leave me alone.”

“BUT MY SOUL! IT BURNS!”

She slammed the door in a panic, holding it shut frantically. He had flipped out! “DAD! DAD!!!” she screamed.

“ON FIRE!” Was he withering on the floor outside? She peeked, and got his face in her face, and she screamed again.

“Burn in hell!”

“ARGH! I’m melting!”

“HURRY UP AND MELT! I’M GOING TO WIPE YOU UP WITH A QUICKERPICKERUPPER AND SELL IT ON E-BAY, YOU BA-

ARGH!”

Claire shrieked again, as her door felt burning hot. Lyle came out of his bedroom, rubbing his shoulders. Looking on in awe.

“Dad!”

“Sylar!” Noah screamed.

“Dad, help!”

“Okay, we won’t go,” Sylar stood up causally, wiping dust off his suit. “It was my one and only hope. Oh well. I’m going back to bed.”

She stared after him breathing hard, as her dad came running up the stairs, gun at the ready.

“What, what?!”

“Sylar just acted like a total freak!”

Her dad sighed and lowered his gun.

***

Initially, Claire had other forms of support, that of the moral kind.

Her little brother had visited her the first few nights, had laughed with her over TV shows while this shadow had sat at the kitchen table, fixing their clocks. (said he had to, it was driving him nuts. Haha.) Lyle was protective of her, sitting right besides her at the kitchen table like a shield.

Then something changed, and she first noticed it when the two guys were outside. She nearly dropped the dish she was cleaning.

“Mom!” she gasped, pointing outside the window, her face paling.

“I know,” her mother said, stirring the pot on the stove. “It’s all right, sweetie. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? Don’t…mom, if Osama Bin Laden and Hitler had suddenly shown up in our backyard doing the Macarena, it wouldn’t even been nearly this creepy.”

“I’m not going to act like Lyle shouldn’t talk to him. You know how that goes, Claire. It’s the forbidden factor that kids find so interesting. I’m just going to let it go."

“What are they doing out there, anyway?”

She peered outside and saw light dancing in Sylar’s hands. He was…showing off, and Lyle had this look on his face of pure awe.

“That’s so cool,” Lyle said, excitedly, hours later, banging the sliding door open. “All Claire can do is gross stuff with her skin.”

“That’s a neat trick, too,” Sylar allowed, smiling at the two women in the kitchen. Meeting Claire’s eyes.

“I guess.” Lyle shrugged before trotting into the next room, and something pinged in her heart. She stared after her brother, confused.

“What’s for dinner tonight, Mrs. Bennet?” the asshole asked, looming over her mother.

“Chicken alfredo,” her mother said stiffly. Go mom.

“Hmm, sounds great. Can I…uh, can I make a request?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Can we have cherry pie for desert? It’s my favorite.”

“All right. I can whip that up easily. Everyone can have a piece.”

Sylar beamed, the picture of innocence, and Claire wasn’t going to let it go. She followed Sylar into the dining room, her fists clenched. “Don’t make fun of my mom.”

“I wasn’t making fun of her.”

Dinner, things had changed. Lyle talked to him eagerly, her mother sometimes couldn’t help but smile, and her dad tolerated him.

This display left her quiet, watching all of this in disbelief, a feeling of abject helplessness making her not be able to eat. It had been slowly happening the entire two weeks, only now she noticed, now she saw. When it was too late.

“Claire’s taking French this year.”

“What?” she asked, looking up, having tuned it all out for, ironically, her good health.

“Really? As in the country?” Sylar inquired.

“No, as in the French fry.”

“Claire,” her mother tsked.

“I had no idea you’d be bilingual. You’ll have to talk French to me sometime.”

And call you every name in the book. Only Lyle could have gotten the reference and he didn’t seem to.

“It’s a date, then.” Her dad frowned.

“Why French though?”

Because my bio-grandmother knows it. I want to know it too. (stupid reason).

“No reason. It sounds nice, and maybe I’ll travel there one day.”

“That would be a reason,” Sylar pointed out.

“I’m taking Calculus,” Lyle brought up and she was thankful for the distraction.

“I’ll get the desert,” she muttered, for an excuse to get out of there. Rubbing her arms in the kitchen, she had the sudden urge to cry. She swallowed it down like bile and grabbed the plates. In a fit of rage, of seizing the day, she marked Sylar’s plate carefully, and poured tons of salt on it, tons of pepper on it. Then she went for the hot sauce.

Passing out his beloved desert, Claire had waited until her dad started to choke. “What is in this?!”

“Here’s some water,” Sylar offered the glass helpfully, while Lyle looked at her.

“Shit!” Her dad rushed out of the room, bright red, and probably not wanting to cry in front of Sylar.

“What on earth?” her mother sputtered, hurrying after him.

“I don’t know what his problem was,” Sylar mused. “I think this is simply scrumptious.”

Claire did not make a mistake in the dishes. Somehow, he had done it.

It was confirmed when he met her outside her bedroom door. “So, you want to play again?” This was spoken very chirper. “I bet you’re one of those people who say they are hanging up but stay on the line.

I hate those people,” he growled, his eye flashing, transforming in front of her to the old Sylar, and she felt all the color drain out of her face to her toes.

“Kidding,” he added, relaxing again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her door not opening to her for some reason.

“Of course you don’t. The first rule of fight club. But I’ve got to ask…are you a virgin?”

Her mouth dropped open, and she jumped back from him as if he had hit her. “What the fuck?”

“Or lack thereof. Only virgins act like you. No wonder your petty revenge is so immature, so underdeveloped. Poor Claire is frustrated.”

“Speaking from experience?” She grinned.

“Not anymore. Not for a long time. What about you?”

“You’re a pervert.”

“I can be if you want me to be. Will that be our new game?”

She broke out into sweat, the hallway in her house, her own house, silent. Her hand trembling on the doorknob. “Get out of my face.”

“And go where? A little lower, maybe. Let me help you with-”

“Now!” she yelled, freaking out, and Sylar flinched, backing away, staring at her with that empty stare of his. His lips curled.

“Not now then. Later. After all, we have all the time in the world for that, you and I.

Just the two of us.”

He turned, dismissing her, and she slammed her bedroom door shut, shivering in the darkness.

Eyes wide and afraid.

***

“Sometimes—I know this will sound bad.”

“It won’t,” his low voice coaxed, whispering. She could see him in her mind, sitting in Lyle’s spinning desk car, playing with a pen, something off-hand. His expression,  
sympathetic.

Her ear was against Lyle’s door and she tried not to breath, tried not to shift her weight so the floorboards wouldn’t give her away. “Trust me, saying it out loud…nice and clear where you can hear it…will make you feel better.”

She bit her lip, knowing she should run, to avoid being seen, but she couldn’t move. It seemed her feet had frozen to the floor.

“Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like if they had never brought Claire home. I think, you know, I would have been the only child, and then maybe I’d feel here. It’s always about her. I know, it should be, she’s not having it easy or anything. But still, sometimes, I wonder what it’d be like...”

“To be acknowledged. I know what you’re going through.”

“You do?” A tinge of hope.

“It won’t always be like that, you having to live in your sister’s shadow. She’s short, she lowers the bar.”

They both laughed, and she didn’t realize her face was wet until she felt the top of her pajama shirt becoming damp.

“Without her power, what would she be?” Sylar asked, rhetorically. “There’s no…substance. She’d just be another cheerleader. Just another girl. You, on the other hand, you’ve had to evolve as a person due to her. On your own. On your own two feet.”

“I’m nothing, special or anything, not like you.”

Like you, she mouthed out.

“I used to be nothing too. Either it will change, or you will change it.”

Lyle listened, and there was silence. Claire strained to hear if there was anything else when the door moved, and she almost fell forward. He was looking at her through the crack, his eyes bright, and empty, and like an abyss.

“The only thing that would do that would be if she finally left.”

“Make. Her.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“No,” he spoke, his mouth forming neatly around the word. “It’s nothing.”

He closed the door.

***

“What do you think you’re doing?” Claire hissed, cornering her brother outside their house, gripping his arm tightly. Painfully.

“What are you gabbing about?” Lyle said, pulling his arm back. “Let go of me. What’s your problem?”

“What’s your problem?” she spat back. “Being buddy-buddy with Sylar? What are you, a little psycho in training?”

A look of hurt flashed over his face, and he closed off. “It’s not as if you’re suddenly interested in me.”

“Do you know what he did to me?” she ground out, her ears throbbing, feeling this spinning out of control. Herself, spinning out of control. “Do you even have a clue?”

“You’re alive. You’re okay. That’s your thing, right? You super-freaky thing that you complain about all the time.”

He moved to get past her, and she pushed him back against the brick, hard. “Not so fast, fanboy. Don’t you get that he’s using you to get to me?”

“Maybe, just maybe, someone finally notices me-.”

Claire laughed. It was cruel, and she knew it at the time. Lyle pushed her back. “Not everything is about you!” he shrieked, turning red. “Not everything thing about my life has to be about you!”

Stunned, she realized she had done the wrong thing, and she reached out to him, to hug him. He pushed her again. And again. And again.

“I lost my friends, I lost everything! We’ll never have a normal life, ever, and you don’t even care!

I wish you’d just go away, I wish he’d would have k-,"

She hit him, felt her fist against his teeth, again, again, and he slammed back against the wall. He looked up at her, brown eyes torn, holding his mouth, with a split lip. There was a lot of blood. Some things couldn’t be taken back.

Claire ran.

“It’s as if this place is finally on time for once-.” Her mother was saying to Sylar, who had pieces of gears everywhere on the table, things she’d never understand, as she ran past them, through the kitchen, grabbing the car keys.

“Claire, honey, what!” her mother yelled after her, but she heard her as if she was in a dream. This was all one bad dream, it had to be, and she’d run and run until she was out of it. She made it to the car, throwing it into reverse, and spinning out onto the street.

Going away.

Getting away.

***

The library will be closing in fifteen minutes, a pleasant voice reminded her. It was cold and detached, but still, everything was right in the world. Even if it wasn’t, it would still say the same thing.

It was dark outside the windows, and Claire hadn’t moved from the corner she had sought out, hiding behind stacks of old books. She had needed a place to go. The gymnasium had been locked, chained from the inside, and try as she might, she couldn’t get in the door and the windows there had been too high.

So, she went to the last place she thought anyone would be on a Saturday night. Sadly, she had been mistaken early in terms of body count, but in terms of quiet, it was the perfect place. Now everyone had drifted out. She’d have to leave too, soon. But where to go?

“This is the last place I would have expected to find you.”

She didn’t move, turning the pages of her book.

“My dad used to read me these old stories. I wanted to see them again.”

“Let’s see it,” and the book was pulled out of her hands. “Journey to the Center of the Earth, huh. A sci-fi classic. I can see the appeal.”

“How’d you find me?”

“After I popped your top, we share a psychic link now. You mean you didn’t know?”

Claire spun around, gasping.

“Kidding. I found you through a tracer.”

She gasped louder, and tried to grab the control out of his hands. Sylar held it out of her reach. “What’s the magic word?”

“Give that to me before I kill you, please?”

He smiled and handed her the tracker, turning his attention back to the book. “This is so much worse than the brain drain option,” Claire muttered.

“I’m flattered you’d think so.”

“You shouldn’t be. I expect this kind of thing from you.”

“And not your Company-issue father?”

“Yeah. You got it.”

The library will be closing in ten minutes.

“You look upset,” Sylar commented, pressing his hand to her cheek. “You’re hot. Has poor Claire been crying?”

“No. Doing research.”

“On how to regress completely?” He patted the book as evidence.

“On how to write a book. I’m going to write one. I’ve decided. What’s the point in living forever if no one knows that you are alive?”

“Ohh, wax-poetic. What could you possibly have to say that takes up more than two words, one of them being ‘like’?”

“About you? You’d be surprised.”

Sylar tilted his head, his lips curling into that smirk like smoke. “I’m your subject?”

“Yes,” she answered simply, standing up and stretching. He seemed to wait to hear more, but she wasn’t telling.

“Can I have a signed copy?”

She shrugged, putting her hands in her pockets. “I’m not going with you.”

“As if you have a choice. Your mother is worried. The hospital only has so much sedatives that they can legally give a person.”

She didn’t want to ask. All she knew was her ears hurt, and though she could heal, the pressure behind her eyes had not gone away. Numb, spent.

“You really don’t look so good. You know what always makes me feel better?”

“Sticking your tongue in an electrical socket?”

“Even better. Ice cream. Come on, my treat.” He put his arm around her, pulling her close, and she didn’t fight him (she couldn’t).

Fifteen minutes later, with the library long since closed, Claire found herself sitting in an ice cream parlor, in a stupid swirly egg-looking chair, looking at stupid pictures.

“Try this. I know you’ll like it.”

A cup with some weird rainbow ice cream was placed delicately in front of her. It was cold by the window. It was cold, and they were eating ice cream. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and saw Sylar seemed to be enjoying his ice cream. A little too much in her opinion. He licked his lips and gave her a questioning look, motioning to her cup.

She took a bite. It was the best ice cream she had ever had. It pissed her right the hell off.

“You know, don’t worry about it. A few stitches, and he’ll be right as rain.”

“What does that even mean?” She took another bite of her ice cream.

“I think it originally started out as ‘right as a line’ or ‘right as adamant’. It’s not supposed to make sense, though considering there would be worldwide hunger without rain, I guess there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Except in a flood.”

“Better a flood than a drought.”

“What?” Claire rolled her eyes. “No way. Flood beats drought.”

“What’s your reasoning?” Sylar asked, raising an eyebrow.

“In a drought, you can store things. In a flood, there’s not even a place to store anything.”

“That’s a good point,” he answered, considering, cupping his chin in thought. “Really good. Hmm. What about fishing? You have a constant supply of fish you can get from your boat.  
Water, you can store in barrels as it comes down. All the bare essentials, right at your hands.”

“Yeah, but you have nowhere to go on a boat. You just sit, and sit, until you get cabin fever and cannibalize everyone on board. Then, you’ve killed your best fisherman, broke the fishing rods flaying them, and it smells really bad.”

“Dump the bodies over the side. Hold them there with rope. More fish will come.”

Claire started to laugh. She couldn’t help it, and was glad that there was no one else in the ice cream shop this late at night to see her hysterical giggling, with tears in her eyes. “God!”

He ran his hand along her back, and she flinched, her body pulling away from his touch instinctively. She stopped laughing.

“You’re feeling better,” he observed, pointing his spoon at her. His eyes explored her, all of her, she felt, and he was working his way around her. Getting things nice and right as rain in his head.

“It’s not unusual that it happened. Inevitable, actually. Blood calls to blood, and you’re not blood. It was an evolutionary arms race. He’s like a weed that grows under the shadow of a tree. Either adapt, or disappear.”

“That’s sad.”

“For the loser, it is. How’s the ice cream?”

“It’s wonderful. Better than wonderful. Dammit.” She took a chance to smile.

He seemed satisfied, and then he changed into a smoother, kinder persona. Familiar, like they had shared a thousand secrets, he set his ice cream aside and propped his elbows on the tables, looking at her and only her. “This counts as quality time. Tell me about yourself, Claire.”

“You know so much, you tell me,” she answered, wanting to flinch but stopping herself not by force of will but by exhaustion.

“You have a horrible temper,” Sylar commented.

“You of all people are telling me I have a horrible temper?”

“A horrible temper,” he adhered. “And I wonder why. You’ve had everything that you ever desired given to you. Why are you so angry?”

“I’m angry because I didn’t ask to be given it. I didn’t…I didn’t have to do…I never had the chance to see what I could do. That’s the broad answer. The other thing is that Lyle did a really shitty thing siding with you. Blood or not, I mean, we lived together forever, and we knew each other our entire lives. That’s more important than blood could ever be.”

“You’d be surprised. Aren’t you going to blame me? I admit, I’ve been waiting for the meltdown.”

“I’ve used up my anger quota for today. You’re not worth a chipped nail, anyway.”

He smirked behind his fingers, continuing his faux-observation pose.

“And you didn’t make me hit him. I did that myself.”

“That’s very mature of you. Are you drunk? I didn’t think that was possible with your powers.”

She made a face at him.

“It’s been building for awhile. I had plenty of time to relive the horrible moment in my head. He was always…upset about it, me, this whole thing. You know what, when he first found out---though he wouldn’t remember this—he stapled me.”

“And my mother tried to stab me to death with scissors.”

She stared at him, caught off guard. He didn’t change his expression. He seemed to be getting closer and closer though he wasn’t moving. Not an inch. “Your point?” he continued.

“I guess there is none. Besides, you are wrong. I didn’t get everything I wanted.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Uh. Um. Right.”

“I don’t have their blood,” she said.

At his look, “Stop that. Not in your creepy way. I meant the relation. That…I mean, you know.”

“Your father would give his life for you. Trust me, I know.”

She swallowed hard, looking away. “I would do the same.”

“I hate to break it to you but it doesn’t quite carry the same weight with you.” She ignored that remark.

“It’s the little things. I used to think ‘oh, I got this from my dad, this from my mom’. It’s a placement, a safety blanket. A connection. And then I found out, all that was completely wrong, and I had no place at all. I didn’t want to know my real parents because I was kind of afraid. Who would abandon their kid? That I might be like them, deep down.

And if I was like them, I’d be alone in the end.”

He blinked for a second. She thought she had imagined it.

“Is that why you wanted to be a sheep so badly? A cheerleader?”

“Oh, that was because well, don’t laugh but they seem to make people happy.”

“Claire, that’s the anti-thesis of a cheerleader.”

She laughed, meeting his eyes again. “That’s a total stereotype.”

“Is it?”

“Well. Okay. But you’ve been to a game, haven’t you? It’s like being a part of something simple, something everyone can join in with. It’s awesome.”

He looked highly doubtful. She squinted at him. “You’ve never been to a game before, have you?”

“Didn’t see the point. They throw a ball around, running after it like a bunch of dogs after a car tire. Rinse and repeat. It’s stupid.”

For some reason, she felt shot down, and she lowered her eyes to her empty cup. “Maybe. But it was a happy kind of stupid.”

This time, he burst out laughing, and the thing was, he didn’t expect to.

“How could I have missed it?” he muttered, swirling his spoon around in his cup.

“You should go to a game someday. It’s not that bad at all. In the future, imagine what it will be like!”

“There’s a thought.” He turned his spoon to gold before her eyes, and well, distraction. Who had he killed for that, she wondered. “I could look into the future and find the winning teams and know who to bet on. I’ll be the sponsor raking in tons of cash that could've gone to balancing global, failing problems.”

“You see,” she said, acutely aware of her little plastic spoon and his sarcasm. “You just have to think positive.”

“I’ll be positively pessimistic. It’s never let me down before, and if it isn’t broke…”

“If you’re concerned about problems, why don’t you go donate that spoon to a charity? I’m sure I saw a place nearby.”

“But speaking of future, what do you want to be?” He dodged the question, and resumed his ice cream inhalation with a freaking golden spoon.

“After all of this, I’m not sure that it even matters anymore. I’ll do something, I guess.”

“Then you’ll be doing a whole lot of nothing.”

“A cop, then.” Take that.

He shook his head, his eyes wide. “You don’t want that job. Not as a girl.”

“What? That’s just…what. You’re sexist too?”

“I think it’s important to be well-rounded.”

“Not all of them are like you. I have an ability, I can take anything they throw at me.”

“I’ll rephrase. I’ve seen quite a few, FBI as well, and they have this ‘don’t mess with me’ thing going on. Of course, I do mess with them when I have the time. Can’t forget about the little people. But you? You have a sign that says ‘Please, sir, may I have another?’”

“…” Claire stared at him, tapping her fingers.

“They could knock you down in a second. I could have, and so can they. You’re too…delicate for that line of work.”

“I’m not as delicate as I look. You should know,” she said softly, and before she could move, he had his hand onto of hers, pinning her hand to table physically.

“Sylar,” Claire snapped. “What, are we on a date? You wanna hold my hand?”

“Try and move your hand. Just try.”

She tried. His hand was like an iron vise, and she was getting angry again. Just when she had calmed down, too.

“Your hands are so little. It’d be almost cute if it weren’t so freakish.”

“Sylar!”

“And helpless. Did I mention helpless?”

The ice cream guy had long ago retreated into the back, so she didn’t care. She’d do what she needed to do. She pinched his hand with her free hand, and he grabbed for it. Hah, she pulled it back right in time.

“If you’re such a big man, you should be able to handle this with one hand tied behind your back, right?” She smiled sweetly.

Evil smile in return. Evil. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

Then she went for the spoon. “Claire, no, that’s my ice cream!”

“I’m going to cut your hand off with your own golden spoon,” she hissed, and started to get to work on that when he grabbed her other hand and forced it down on the table as well. The spoon rolled to the side, near her.

“Oh no,” he cooed. “Look what you’ve gotten yourself into now.”

In response, she grabbed the spoon with her teeth. His mouth dropped open, and he gazed at her, curious despite himself.

“And what, exactly, are you going to do to me?”

She would have verbalized her plans but instead, actions spoke so much loudly. She lunged at his face and he moved back, just in time, managing to keep both of her hands pinned. He laughed.

“Do your worse. I want to see it in you.”

Claire contemplated doing just that, but she spat the spoon out instead. “I’m not ready to gouge someone’s eyes out in public. All I could think about was English class.”

“How in hell would that even be a mental association?”

“Out vile jelly. It’s a Shakespeare thing.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“I dunno. I’m just not ready to do that.”

“Then you don’t got what it takes to be a coppah,” he muttered, in some lame accent, smirking. “But I was concerned there for a moment.”

“You can let go of me now.”

He did so, slowly, reaching for his spoon and then finding it lacking. He made a face.

“So, I can’t be a cop. What can I be then?”

“We’ve got to figure this out now?”

“Yes. If I actually finish this ice cream before finding out what I’m good at, then I can’t go on.”

“You’re going to need a bigger cup.”

Claire sighed. “I’m done anyway.”

“You’re not good at anything. So, naturally, there’s a lot of things you can do.”

“…Okay.”

“I’m serious,” Sylar said. “Listen for a minute. My talent is like the one thing.”

“It seems like you can do quite a bit.”

“Shhh,” he said, in such a way it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “I’m speaking. I’m good at one thing excessively. Which, biologically, naturally, balances out where I’m not good at several things. So, you could do anything you want. Actually, there is one thing you’re good at, and it’s catching on, reacting.

So, it’s an okay combination.”

“Are you seriously saying I’m not good at anything?”

“I’m saying you’re good enough at anything now, and when you hone in on ‘it thing’, you can beat the experts by catching on.”

“Do you seriously mean that?” she whispered. A little surprised. Maybe more than a little. “What happened to no substance?”

“I didn’t say he had the substance of what, did I?

You’re okay.”

“Okay. I’ll take an okay.”

“Good because that’s all you’re going to get. Any other questions for me? This is your rare and exclusive chance to pick my brain.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to waste that,” Claire sang out. “This means my question must be special.”

He shrugged, getting up for another spoon.

“Use that one. It’s only solid gold.”

“I can’t now.”

“Fifteen second rule…or more. It’s a clean floor.”

“It’s not that, it’s that you spit all over it.”

Okay, in some way, in some weird, bizarre form, he was kind of fun. She didn’t want to feel too…lulled into a false sense because he did want to hurt her. But it was so complex, now, that he was fun while he was hurting her.

How did that work?

“I’ve got my question,” she announced.

“Shoot, Tex.”

“Why do boys obsess over virgins?”

Claire had the brief suspicion that she almost knocked him off his chair. (She felt a secret pride). He gaped, half amused, half something else entirely, his ears red. (Interesting, she thought). “Don’t tell me I have to give you the talk.”

“Asshole,” Claire said, almost affectionately. “I’m asking for my book. What’s the big deal?”

“Because you get to take it and it’s yours. Yours forever.” She didn’t dare check to see his expression now, she could hear it in his voice.

“How very serial killer-ish of you.”

“It’s a popular sentiment. Just because he doesn’t tell you, doesn’t mean he isn’t thinking the exact same thing.”

“Thanks for ruining my first time.”

“My pleasure.” She looked away, quite quickly, and was saved, or damned by the bell.

His cell phone rang, and her stomach dropped like a stone.

“It’s nothing bad. Just your dad,” he said, enjoying it. “Hey, pard. What’s goin-.”

Sylar held the phone away from his ear. “Hey, hey, she’s okay. She’s right here, I found her for you. You want to talk to her?”

He handed the phone over like a judge would a sentence. She picked it up gingerly, waiting to hear the executioner.

“Hi,” she whispered.

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. It was excruciating with Sylar clearly listening in, his brow furrowed.

“Come home. Now.”

He hung up.

“Well, you heard the man. Let’s go, little lady.”

“Shut up, Sylar.”

He pressed his hand to his heart, and they walked out together. The ice cream guy crept out from the back. Then he spotted something shiny on the ground, and went to pick it up, sighing. One of them had obviously dropped something, and it’d be a big deal that he’d have to put up with, and…

Oh my god.

***

“Shit,” Claire muttered, sinking lower into the seat of the car. The lights were on, and everything, and she was reliving the moment again and again, complete in color and sound…and violence.

She couldn’t believe she had done that. She couldn’t believe she had done that. It didn’t seem real, not then and not now, and it was cut and dry. She couldn’t go back, she felt.

“We’re here,” Sylar sang out softly, running a long finger across the steering wheel.

“Can’t we keep on driving around the block? Just a little longer…”

“No. I want to be awake enough to enjoy this.”

She turned, leaning against her seat. “If I asked you…to stop whatever you’re doing…complete with the magic word and everything…would you?”

“Not a chance.”

Claire hated herself when she started to cry. Sylar peered over at her in the darkness. “You should do that in front of him. Not me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“First strike. You’re not out. It’s not…a big deal. It’s funny but it’s not a big deal. Just say Lyle claimed you weren’t a natural blonde. You’re his pretty, pretty princess. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Second,” she whispered. At this, he perked up. “…Second,” he echoed. “You left that out of our get-to-know-each-other time. What happened?”

“Something stupid, when doesn’t it happen?”

“Going to have to be more specific. Come on, Claire-bear. You’ve got my full attention now. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, speaking through tears. “I didn’t want yours.”

“Could have fooled me. And I’m never fooled. So, what happened? Did Daddy’s little girl kill somebody?”

“It’s was a car accident, okay. There was this guy, a stupid football player. He did something—so horrible, and I got him into a car and then drove it into a wall.”

“Well, well. Claire. You’re kind of demented.”

She hit him. She hit him right in the face, and he laughed. “This is amazing!”

She hit him again, holding his collar, and hit-hit-hit. “Just, pretend, I’m your, little brother.”

Claire stopped, and started to cry again.

“After all of that, you’re still an innocent. Fascinating…”

She turned away, as far away as she could get without getting out of the car.

“You shouldn’t care what I think. I’m a killer, remember?”

“But my dad…”

“In situations like these, it’s best just to rip the band-aid off. Come on, out of the car.”

“I can’t get out.”

“Then do you want to drive off with me?” he proposed, and she almost combusted.

“What?”

“You heard me. I can do a better job of taking care of you than he ever would. I don’t mind you that much. You’re unusual. I might even like you someday.” He laughed. “Besides, they turned on you much too quickly. Even for my liking.

You know you could never get rid of me.”

She couldn’t speak. Beyond the pale.

“I could help you get more powers, if you’d like,” he continued. “I can do that much for you. You won’t have to feel helpless ever again.”

For a minute, she considered it. For him, it was a minute too long.

“Get out of the car.”

“I can’t!”

“I’ll fix that.” Sylar got out of the car, and she felt things shifting under her feet. Found out for a horrible person, and she hadn’t even known herself. Her passenger side door opened and he rubbed his hand along her arm. “Hey. Deep breaths.”

He touched her leg, trying to pull her out. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Oh.” Sylar backed away. Then she heard the house door slam, and she really was going to be sick.

“Where were you?”

“I just found her,” Sylar offered, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Is that why you were sitting with a girl who looked just like her in an ice cream shop for thirty minutes?”

“I noticed the resemblance too. Uncanny.” At Bennet’s look, he seemed to falter. “I was letting her cool down for a few minutes.”

“Move.”

Sylar stepped aside, and Claire felt her dad grab her arm, pulling her out. His hands were different, truly angry this time.

“No,” Sylar said, and she was now pulled by no hands.

“Excuse me?” Bennet asked.

“I’m not going in there until your friend leaves. I feel like I can’t be myself with him around. And neither is Claire.”

Her father stared silently at the two of the, his glasses glinting in the light, until he waved a hand at the house and the Haitian walked out. Sylar kept pulling her back the appropriate space, seeming to have mastered the count of distance.

Out of sight, Sylar sighed. “There. Now let the beatings begin.”

She choked, and Noah ignored the other man, taking Claire’s hand and marching her into the kitchen. He sat her down in the chair and put both hands on the arms, staring her right in the eye.

“Explain to me.”

“How is he?” she asked instead.

Noah blinked, his jaw tightening. “He almost had a concussion.”

Claire looked questioningly at Sylar, who had moseyed into the kitchen. “I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t wait to find out.”

She lowered her eyes. “What happened?”

“We got into a fight. We said some stuff. He pushed me first.”

“Did it occur to you that he’s younger than you? Did it occur to you that you can heal?”

“That sounds like a Level 5 type of thing, doesn’t it,” Sylar said from the side, and Claire felt a thrill of horror bolt through her. What was he doing? “I mean, usually, you’d have locked her up, no questions asked. For abusing her powers. Can’t make a mistake. There’s no mistakes with people like us. The responsibility of being like gods, I guess.

Funny, this is the second time. Is your favoritism blinding you?”

“Shut. Up.” Bennet said, turning back to her.

“I didn’t mean to do it.”

“What was it about?”

“He said he wanted me gone, okay. He said I was ruining his life.”

Her dad blinked and pulled away. “I don’t believe that.”

Her mouth fell open. “What? It’s true.”

“Your brother and I had had several talks. He understood the situation, and he was supportive of you. Now, what’s the reason?”

“That’s the reason!” she cried out.

“Why are you acting this way? You can’t…hurt members of the family, you can’t lose control of your emotions like that!”

“But that was the one thing, the one thing he could have said-.”

“Where would he get that idea in his head?!” Her father yelled at her. For the first time ever. She went blank, staring up at him.

“Because I put it there,” Sylar said, frowning. “We’re out of milk.”

“…You what?” Bennet asked. Sylar looked at her instead.

“Thanks, Claire. You were no fun, you make it too easy.”

“You. What.”

“Aren’t you glad your friend isn’t here? I know I’m glad. What a downer.” Sylar backed out of the room, her dad following him.

“You could have gotten Lyle killed.”

“And his sister could be a blood donor. Reunite the family. It’s the perfect Hallmark moment. You can thank me later.”

“You,” Bennet growled out.

“Or not. Your inexpressible joy is the greatest gift of all.”

“I thought you were different.”

“You should have known better. But go easy on your daughter. She’s not as bad as I am.

Yet.”

Sylar touched the front door and waved. “Tell Sandra her cooking was exquisite. See you at work. Bye, Claire!”

And he was out the door before anyone could blink.

The damage already done, and this time, it wasn't a wound that could be healed.


End file.
